Orbis Incognitus
by The Marvelous Mad Madam Mim
Summary: For the first time in her life, she's truly, utterly alone. No consequences, no sacrifices. Just her.


_**Orbis Incognitus**_

_"Obit anus, abit onus." ~Arthur Schopenhauer._

* * *

She finds herself stopping at the stop signs still, as if there are any other drivers on the road, as if the rules of the old world still apply, and for some reason, that amuses her.

_Typical Carol. Always following the rules, even when there aren't any rules left to follow_.

She shakes her head at this. Her amusement mutes into something else, something undefined, something between anger and sorrow—anger to think that she could still be the same simpering stay-between-the-lines-at-all-costs former self (because that woman was weak, she was a liability instead of an asset, a mouse instead of a warrior), and sorrow to think that she's not that woman anymore (because that woman was loved, her own softness brought out a tenderness in others, her caring made others care for her). It's a strange place, trapped between loathing and wanting, and she doesn't know how to even _begin_ sorting out these conflicting emotions, so instead, she gives her head another curt shake, effectively shutting down the current line of thought.

She presses the pedal further to the floor, fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter as she blows through one stop sign, then two, her speed 35 miles over the posted speed limit. She feels a smile sneaking across her lips and she allows herself this moment of childish giddiness.

After all, it's just her now. No consequences, no sacrifices. Just her. For the first time in her life, she's truly, utterly alone. Not even a radio station to play in the background to distract her from her own mind.

So of course, her undistracted mind wanders back to a physical location that will always be a turning point, the ground zero of her life in the new world—back to the cul-de-sac, standing on the sidewalk next to a green SUV that's no longer there, at the moment when her heart drops between her feet as she sees the look in Rick's eyes and she _knows_.

Part of her thinks that she knew how this would end, from the moment Rick asked her to go on the run. That was why she'd begun laying out her defense—she would not beg (she wouldn't _dare_ allow herself to be so weak), but she would present her case, she would defend her actions and hope that Rick could eventually see that her reasons were just. That was why she'd tried to impart one last lesson, perhaps the most important one yet, to Lizzy. That was why she allowed herself to place one quick kiss on Mika's forehead as she hugged her goodbye (she could be tender like that with Mika, because Mika understood, because Mika was in some ways stronger than Lizzy, more practical, less emotional, because she understood that Carol would protect her and guide her, but that Carol would never be her mother, at least not in the way that mothers used to be, in the old world). That was why she began pushing Rick to talk about it later on, pushing him to say what he was thinking, so that she could remind him of the similarities between their choices, between themselves.

She knew that Rick wanted to leave her behind. She sensed his quiet brooding, felt the weird energy radiating off him in waves, the way his eyes softly watched her, as if he were looking for a sign, some semblance of her former self, some redeeming quality. And she had let him brood, because she thought that he simply needed time to convince himself that she had done the right thing. Honestly, she had thought that he wouldn't be able to leave her, when it came down to it. They had shared too much history, he knew her too well and understood her too deeply to leave her behind.

Obviously, she miscalculated that last part. Rick saw her as a threat to his children, and that was the deciding line. He'd killed his best friend for threatening his family, and Carol should have known that she meant far less to him than Shane ever did.

She briefly wonders if Rick will tell the others what really happened. She knows he will. Whenever Daryl left to be with Merle, Rick had tried to comfort her. But she had quietly told him that she understood—Daryl had his own code, and he had to follow it. The truth is, they all have codes. Rick's code is the reason he banished her, the reason she knows that he will tell the others the truth. And her code is the reason he banished her as well, the reason she killed two people, the reason she left another behind. Her code forbade her from begging Rick to forgive her, from letting Lizzy call her mom, from regretting her actions even when she doesn't necessarily _like_ them.

She is struck by the odd realization that today was the first time that Rick has ever asked her if she thought that he was making the right decision. It is in this memory that she also realizes something else—Rick sees her as a leader, he gauges his own decisions based on how she would have reacted. Perhaps even without truly knowing what he was doing, Rick acknowledged her logic. For some reason, that fills her with a sense of comfort, knowing that in the end, despite his morals and his damned code, Rick Grimes still knows that she made the best choice.

Rick's greatest weakness is that he always needs to feel as if he's making the _right_ choice. Not the _safest_, or the _best_, or the _most logical_. Sometimes the right choice is all of those things. Sometimes it isn't. And when it isn't, Rick chooses morality over survival. With a pang of fear and sadness, Carol realizes that this particular trait will be his downfall.

Like Lizzy. Today she spoke of becoming a walker as simply another kind of transformation, so philosophically stoic for her age. While Carol could actually understand the girl's line of thought, she had to be harsh with her, had to stop that kind of idealism in its tracks. If they lived in the old world, if they lived in a time and place where walkers were merely a hypothetical situation, then there would be no harm in Lizzy's nonchalant view. But the old world is gone, and walkers are real, and philosophy has no place in the struggle for survival.

She is glad that she had the chance to impart this last and most vital lesson to Lizzy before she left, before she was sent away. She can only hope that Lizzy will take the lesson to heart, that she will learn to place pragmatism above philosophy, that she will learn to do whatever it takes to survive, so that she can ensure her little sister's survival in turn.

Lizzy and Mika won't understand why she did not come back for them. Rick will tell the adults why Carol was exiled, and perhaps the news will trickle down to them as some cautionary tale, some don't-be-a-Carol warning, and she feels a sense of injustice at that realization. The kids—oh, she tried to teach them, tried to protect them, tried to teach them how to protect themselves, and now will all her lessons be unlearned because of her decision to put the needs of many above the desires of a few? She thinks that Rick will tell the girls the truth, but he won't tell all of it. He won't tell them that she wanted to bring them with her, that she referred to them as her own daughters when she spoke to Sam and Ana, that her only moment of weakness was when she realized that she would be forced to leave them behind. She wants them to know that they are wanted and loved by her, even though she didn't always allow herself to show it, and she wonders if they will know this, if they will understand, if they will somehow sense that she would have taken them with her, if she could.

This is that part that hurts her the worst, the part that she knows will make her cry later on, after the sun has set and the hour of the wolf arrives. Daughter, daughters, lost and regained, gained and lost. What a heartbreaking pattern. What a heartbreaking realization, knowing that you were never and can never truly be a good mother. She thinks that she was a good mom, in the old world. However, nothing could have prepared her for being a mother in this new world.

She is not Carol Peletier, wife of Ed Peletier, mother of Sophia Peletier. She is simply Carol. She is a product of her environment, a creation of the new world, a thing completely unrecognizable when compared to her former self. She thinks that must be a good thing. However, she also acknowledges that she's currently alone on the torn and forsaken highway, exiled from the only family she's known in the new world—so perhaps it isn't an _entirely_ good thing.

No, it is a good thing, she decides. The problem isn't her outlook. It's the fact that not everyone has adapted to the new world. Rick is still holding on to old world mentality, old world morality, and _that_ is the bad thing.

Rick's archaic ways are no longer her concern. How those ways affect the lives of the others at the prison is no longer her concern. The others at the prison are no longer her concern. For the first time in her life, Carol will live for herself. And she knows that she is finally strong enough to do that. No more digging graves, no more leaving behind friends to the teeth and claws of walkers, no more quick and quiet knives into the blank faces of loved ones, no more agonizing over deciding between what's right and what's best.

She gives another small nod, silently approving of her new life philosophy. She feels a tremor of trepidation at this acceptance (has she finally gone too far, has she become Shane, has she lost all hope, all humanity, all worthiness, all reason to live?), but she pushes it back down.

Now the suburb is out of sight, the sun is beginning to set and there's a deep inky blackness rising from the tree line—she realizes how much she truly misses electrical lighting, misses the warm glow of a big city on the horizon, misses the signs of _life_ and _others_ that used to be such an innate part of her existence that she didn't even acknowledge it.

_Others_ is an old world concept, an old world comfort. Now, in the new world, others are just as dangerous as walkers. Rick told her that she could join another group, but she thinks that she will keep to herself from now on. Maybe. It is too scary to fully commit to such a life plan, so she softens it with _maybe _and _for now_. For now, she will be on her own. For the first time ever, she will not have a witness to her life. It is strange, thinking that perhaps she will die, caught up in a herd of walkers, alone on this highway, and no one will know.

Perhaps that is why she gave Rick the watch. She had kept the watch as a timepiece, not as a sentimental keepsake (because God knows, she did not pine for her old life or her husband). It told her when to rise, when to patrol the fence line, when to bring the kids in for story time, when to prepare meals, when to go to sleep. She didn't need that anymore. Schedules and rules are for people on whom others are depending. She isn't one of those people. Not anymore.

But it wasn't just about shedding the unnecessary. No. It was about leaving something physical behind, something to say _remember me_, something to prove that at one time, she was here, and she was real, and she was seen. Perhaps it was also a touch passive-aggressive. Because Carol knows that Rick Grimes is a brooder—he will continue to mull over this decision in his mind, days and weeks and even months from now, wondering if he truly made the right choice. Knowing Rick, he'll never have an answer (he seems incapable of self-forgiveness, of simply letting go). And also knowing Rick, he'll wear her watch every day, and every day he will look down at it and quietly think of her. _You can ship me off, you can send me away, but you can't forget me. I'll be here, always here, on your skin, under your skin, a part of you and your story, just as you are a part of mine. I can be swept aside, but I won't be swept under a rug._

No, she won't be forgotten. She may not be remembered in the best of terms, she may not even be missed, but at least she will be remembered.

She briefly spares a thought for Daryl. Now that he's gone forever, now that it doesn't matter, she can admit her true feelings for him. She feels another frisson of fear in her stomach as she wonders how he will remember her—will he understand, will he accept that she was simply following her code, with the same gentle compassion that she had accepted his departure from the group? Will he see that she made the right decision? Will he defend her memory against the others?

She likes to think that he would understand, that he would be angry at Rick for his decision, but she also realizes that it doesn't truly matter, because she'll never see him again to know the truth.

The same goes for Lizzy and Mika. Maybe they'll understand, maybe they won't. Either way, it's no longer her concern. _Que sera sera._

She sees a sign listing the distances to the nearest cities. She needs to pull over and look at a map—she's not going anywhere in particular, and she actually likes that. Still, she wants to avoid cities for awhile. Right now, the road is passing through the middle of a forest, and she doesn't feel safe stopping here. Once she reaches another open field, a place where she can see a walker coming from a greater distance, then she'll stop and actually start planning her movements.

As the car rounds another curve in the road, she is surprised to see headlights beaming back at her. It isn't dark yet, but the tall pines block out what's left of the sun, and she can't see the faces of the vehicle's occupants. They flash their lights at her, and she thinks that they want her to stop, so that they can join forces. Or maybe they want her to pull over, to gain her trust so that they can slit her throat and take her supplies, or worse.

She just keeps driving. For now, she will be on her own. And for now, she knows it is the right decision. The right _and_ the best.

* * *

_"Omne initium difficile est." ~Unknown._


End file.
